I recently purchased a bracket for my handlebars so I can take some pics while I’m actually in motion. (See the end of this post for a link to the bracket.)
The photos are pretty much distorted, even when I’m idling at a red light. But I blame my phone. The bracket is pretty solid.
Sure, I was disappointed with how they came out. However, the shakiness added a kind of cool effect.
Optimism hasn’t been my strong suit. But, after seeing the forehead creases, grey hair and general stress that I’ve earned from a life of embracing pessimism, I’ll try to be more positive.
Where did it all go?
I used to love hearing stories from both of my grandfathers. Grandpa Uppie would tell us about working out on the oil rigs. About when he fell off a rig and broke his back.
“I forgot my Superman cape that day, Leslie,” he told me.
That ol’ cowboy was one on a very small, and continually shrinking, list of people I don’t mind calling me by my full name.
I wish I could remember more of what Uppie said. If only I had had the presence of mind to write down his tales. Grandma always said someone should have written his memoirs. Yep, that’s one mark in the regret column for me.
Grandpa Sid would talk about how the Cockrells owned a mercantile business somewhere in Missouri. He told us about how the term “sooner” came to be, as it refers to Okies.
I hate the fact that I didn’t pay better attention to my grandfathers while they were alive. They might not have thought it, but they were both full of experience and wisdom. And they would offer it freely to anyone who asked.
Isn’t that truly the legacy all of us would like to have?
I’m not old, but damn I feel it sometimes
My boys are growing like weeds. And I can tell they’re both in the middle of growth spurts. The eat. And eat. And eat some more. All. The. Time.
My oldest, Logan, will be nine at the end of this month. How can this be? Didn’t I just see him walking across the living room in his diaper, watching “Yo Gabba Gabba?” Now, he’s into football, he’s an avid reader. He’s a young man.
Luke is going to be six this year. What? How? I remember in the delivery room, after the doctor put him on the table to weigh him, and he looked over at me and smiled.
I try to squeeze onto the time I have with them, but it still slips through my fingers.
I try to make the most of time off. But sometimes I’m tired, and grumpy. Sometimes I allow myself to get wrapped up in my own interests. And they can sense it. As soon as I put in a video game I want to play, they either start asking when it’s their turn, or they fight about god-knows-what.
Or the blues settle in and all the important things don’t seem to matter. I’m not sure if it feels like there’s a door in my mind that the monster breaks out of and takes over. Or maybe I’m pulled into the room with it. I shouldn’t fret over the proper metaphor.
The only thing we really have
I read somewhere in one of Vonnegut’s books that we’re here to fart around. That’s it. Then we die.
But somewhere between farting around and dying, I want to have a peace about how I’ve spent my most valuable resource: time. I’ve wasted some of it. There are opportunities I pissed away in my late-teenage-to-young-adult years. Coulda saved money on college if I tried harder in high school. Oh well, that’s a small regret. I won’t writhe on my deathbed over that one.
But after I realized how precious my time on this earth is, I decided I’d do my best to spend it wisely. I’ve found a good balance between work, family life and my hobbies.
There are times I feel stifled by my kids. Where I think, can you just leave me alone for awhile? I have a feeling that if I let that sentiment take over, I’ll be hearing it back from them in their teenage years.
I believe Lacey and I have a great foundation with our boys. We don’t go through the motions of parenthood (e.g. spoiling them at Christmas, or take them out but bury our faces in our phones). We ask them about their day. We give them hugs. We listen. We love.
That’s our legacy.